


Marching Orders

by xel



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Also Hana is there and she's super supportive of Fareeha and also totally ready to throw down, F/F, Fareeha and Hana friendship is really want I want, It's more that it has the potential for pharmercy than any /actual/ pharmercy..., NewRecruit!AU, and concerned and carrying Angela since apparently that's not normal anymore??, some tension between Fareeha and Angela ... and I don't mean sexual tension just like ... tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-28 07:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11413110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xel/pseuds/xel
Summary: Overwatch is recalled, Angela Ziegler returns, Hana Song is recruited ... and Fareeha Amari joins. Some have reservations regarding the Egyptian woman's presence. Hana isn't one of those people.Hana misses Korea sometimes, Fareeha misses Egypt and the reputation she made for herself there, though she’s only brought it up once and maybe, maybe, Hana had a minor breakdown her first month here, and maybe, maybe Fareeha was the only person that seemed to notice or care. So they are friends. Or at least, Hana is pretty sure they are friends.So if Hana gets a bit annoyed when others on the team talk during lunch about how Fareeha is standoffish because she hasn’t joined them in the mess it is only because she thinks they are being a little hypocritical; none of them know her at all and nobody is making the effort to try.





	Marching Orders

The problem is that nobody on base really knows Pharah yet. Fareeha keeps to herself: sticks to the outdoors, her dorm, the town, and hasn’t really talked to anyone – well  _talk_ , talked, she sometimes says greetings in passing, when prompted, and commands during missions over the communication channel (both short and often terse, but probably not intentionally; Fareeha is kind of a ‘get the job done’ type of person).  

 

Hana blows a bubble in her gum until it is about half the size of her head and then sucks it back in; there is music in the hanger that comes from speakers placed high up in the four corners of the garage space. It is turned down relatively low, but the bass cords of the rock music Fareeha has turned on still rattle Hana’s eardrums and make the sticky candy quiver. She’s watching Fareeha bob her head to the rhythm as the woman tightens a bolt on her Raptora suit – hanging on metal chains draped over a steel bar – and then she turns back to her handheld and the game displayed on screen. (Hana has already beaten it, twice, in fact, now she is just picking up collectables and upgrades she didn’t care about during the campaign.)

 

This is how they sometimes spend Saturday evenings. In here – the hanger (the MEKA has gotten a lot better care since they started, and the Raptora is always in top condition); in the gym, where Fareeha teaches Hana new offensive techniques through sparring, where Hana teaches Fareeha the equally useful skill of non-confrontation; in Hana’s room playing videogames (poorly, in Fareeha’s case); or out on the null behind the compound sipping tea or pop from thermoses, eating junk food, and chattering about things. Hana misses Korea sometimes, Fareeha misses Egypt and the reputation she made for herself there, though she’s only brought it up once and  _maybe_ , maybe, Hana had a minor breakdown her first month here, and maybe,  _maybe_  Fareeha was the only person that seemed to notice or care. So they are friends. Or at least, Hana is pretty sure they are friends.

 

So if Hana gets a bit annoyed when others on the team talk during lunch about how Fareeha is standoffish because she hasn’t joined them in the mess it is only because she thinks they are being a little hypocritical; none of them know her at all and nobody is making the effort to try.

 

“-Hana,” Fareeha says, cutting into the younger woman’s game and thoughts. Hana hums absently in acknowledgment, her eyes still on the screen. “Will you hand me that screwdriver by your foot?” Hana looks over the handheld to see a screwdriver resting on the top of the tool cabinet her feet are propped up on and grabs it. 

 

“Catch,” she says, and tosses it to Fareeha, who does so easily. Fareeha goes back to work, Hana watching her. After a moment Hana sits forward a bit in her swiveling mechanic’s chair and breaks the companionable silence.

 

“Hey,” she says, “you should come with me to dinner in the mess tonight.” It is nearing six p.m., and Hana had planned to head that way soon. This stops Fareeha, she doesn’t turn instantly, but she does rub her shoulder with her free hand, smearing grease across the base of her neck.

 

“I do not … think that is a good idea,” Fareeha says eventually, and turns.

 

Fareeha should be a pretty intimidating presence. She stands like a soldier, after all, and she is tall. She has a gaze which _dares_ _you_ to lie to her, and she never quite looks down – Hana’s noticed. When she talks to Hana, who is shorter than her, their eyes meet, but Fareeha’s chin is held high. Despite this, there is a softness to her interactions with others, and the young gamer has never felt like she had to prove herself to Fareeha Amari.

 

Often, the older members of Overwatch act as though Hana is younger than she actually is; unready for the burdens of war – and maybe they are right, but if they are, it is not because of her age, and definitely not because of her skill. Hana has reminded them time and again that she had been her country’s first line of defense against total annihilation more than once - that she is capable - but it is tiring.

 

Fareeha never make her feel like anything less than what she is now: a soldier. Probably this is because Fareeha has spent a lot of time proving the same things.

 

“Why not? It’ll be fun,” Hana pouts. Fareeha chuckles at her frown and sets the screwdriver down on the toolbox.

 

“What fun things are constantly happening at dinner?” Fareeha asks, humoring her. Hana rolls her eyes.

 

“Well, for starters, I’m there and things are always interesting when I am involved.” Fareeha looks at her skeptically; unconvinced. Hana groans at the woman’s stubbornness, “… Have you even talked with anyone else since you’ve been here?” Fareeha blinks and does not respond. “It’s been like three months. Do you even know everyone’s names?” Hana doesn’t mean for the bite in her tone, but she can hear it as she speaks just the same. If Fareeha is hurt by it, it doesn’t show. Fareeha sighs softly, and sits down beside Hana in another swivel chair. Hana spins to face her and doesn’t miss the way Fareeha’s eyes flicker to the far corner of the room, her hands folded around each other rest between her legs as she leans forward, her elbows on her thighs.

 

“I grew up around a lot of the people here, Hana,” Fareeha tells her after a time, her voice soft and weirdly distant. Her eyes flicker back to Hana then and she offers a small smile, “and I have read all the files. So yes, I know everyone’s name.”

 

“You are going to have to explain to me why you don’t want to make friends,” Hana grumbles, “I don’t get it.” 

 

“I’m not opposed to making friends,” Fareeha responds with a chuckle, “and I know most of the recruits to be good people, but you must understand: I will always be my mother’s daughter to the returning members of Overwatch.” At Hana’s confusion Fareeha rubs her shoulder and sits straighter, continuing: “I did not come here to measure up to my mother’s legacy and I did not come to rehash the same conversation about honor and pride with the heroes of my youth. I joined to make the world a better place.”

 

“So you’re just going to ignore everyone?” Hana gapes, “instead of showing them how much of a badass you are?”

 

“I am not _ignoring_ anyone,” says Fareeha, “and I do not need to prove myself. I am a good soldier; I know I hold value.” Hana huffs at the not-answers, but raises her hands in a mock show of surrender, just the same.

 

“Fine, fine,” she says, “I’ll drop it … for now.” A pause, and then: “For the record, though, I don’t know your mom at all, and I think you are pretty cool.” When Fareeha laughs it is a remarkably genuine sound. She closes her eyes and covers them with her hands in embarrassment. Hana smirks.

 

“Thanks,” she says.

 

* * *

 

 

“I am astonished that you even managed this,” says Dr. Ziegler, an undertone of wonder beneath her exasperation. Hana shrugs through the pain of both her dislocated shoulders and debates telling the good doctor that it happened when Pharah pinned her into the mat during sparring, but decides against it. Hana Song isn’t a snitch … and she gets the impression Fareeha and the doctor don’t quite see eye-to-eye.

 

Dr. Ziegler sighs heavily and places her palm just above Hana’s right collarbone.

 

“I’m afraid this is going to hurt,” she says.

 

Before Hana can begin to ask what the doctor means, Angela’s other hand is bracing her neck and with surprising force she rolls the younger girl’s shoulder back into place. Hana screams and responds colorfully in Korean. There are few pains Hana has experienced more excruciating than what the doctor has just done and Hana’s head spins a bit with the rolling aftershock. Here, she thought mercy was just a clever double entendre, not some sadistic anti-name … like a hairless, raging, devil dog being named Cupcake. Okay, not exactly like that. But the point remains.

 

“Perhaps next time you should be more careful,” Dr. Ziegler says without remorse, eyeing Hana suspiciously, “now the other.” Hana scrambles back a bit on the examination table, to avoid the doctor’s reaching hands. The protective paper bunches under her thighs as she moves and makes a rustling noise which breaks the tense, sterile air around them.

 

“That’s okay, doc, I think I’ll leave this one,” Hana grins, pain shoots through her arm even as she says it, but for the sake of not reliving that particular experience, she hides it.

 

“Nonsense,” says Angela and deftly pulls Hana forward. With fluid motions much too quick to be entirely human the other shoulder pops back into place as well and Hana curses again, much louder this time (the pain is substantially worse) as the doctor lets her go. Everything is sore and unpleasant; the room is spinning; fuck doctor visits. When the stars leave Hana’s vision, she’s able to blink up at Dr. Ziegler with what she hopes is an accurate expression of the betrayal she feels. Whether or not Angela sees it is hard to tell, as she makes no move to comfort or acknowledge Hana’s decided discomfort.

 

“I advise you refrain from physical activity for a couple of weeks and apply ice when you inevitably become sore,” Angela tells her, her voice professional and distant, “wait here,” Hana watches as Angela moves about the confines of the med bay. From a cooled cabinet at the far end of the room she pulls a vial of something iridescently yellow, and from a box beside it, a sterile syringe. “This should mend the fracture in your left shoulder and reduce the swelling and pain,” Hana nods in resignation as Angela fills the syringe. She sterilizes the skin of Hana’s left shoulder and applies the shot with steady hands, made sure by a lifetime of practice. Hana feels the relief almost immediately and wonders for a moment at the miracle of nanobiology technology as Angela disposes of the syringe, removes her gloves and stores the vial once more.  

 

“Now,” says Angela, turning on her. Her entire body language seems to change; gone is the cold indifference of a doctor to her patient. She’s got that look of a mother, Hana thinks: That quiet disapproval and earnest expression – let me help you. Hana bites the inside of her cheek to keep from saying something she doesn’t mean to. “Want to tell me what really happened?”

 

“Nothing happened,” Hana lies. Angela slips her glasses off her nose and sets them down on a table beside Hana’s bed. They’re red and bulky, not meant to be seen by others, Hana thinks; it is pretty late, though. Dr. Ziegler wasn’t asleep when she came knocking on the med bay door, but she certainly wasn’t expecting visitors, if the half consumer pot of coffee and plaid pajama pants the doctor is wearing were any indicator.

 

“Really?” Angela responds, unconvinced.

 

“Just a little accident,” Hana tells her, grinning. Angela sighs, crosses her arms and looks vaguely at the door. Hana’s not talking, she’s already decided, and Angela must see it too because she steps back a bit and shakes her head.  

 

“Hmm,” Angela hums, resigned, seeming more tired now than she has since Hana first entered the room. Hana knows why, of course she does, she knows basically everything. While Winston might be the instigator of the recall, it is Dr. Ziegler who is attending conferences and world leader affairs and client meetings – and healing the recruits (though now Lucio’s around to help, and that guy is basically a godsend, so soon Dr. Zielger should shoulder a bit less). “Overwatch’s budget does not allow for such potentially detrimental … accidents.” Dr. Ziegler tells her, “I’ll inform Winston that you’re to be taken off the mission rotation until you have fully recovered, but please be more responsible.”

 

“Thanks doc,” says Hana, and then belated, as she stands: “It won’t happen again.” She flashes the D.Va smile; the one that has gotten her out of all sorts of messes in the past. Dr. Ziegler smiles faintly back at her.

 

“I am sure that it won’t.” Angela watches Hana open the door, take her first step out, but just before the younger girl can slip away completely she calls: “And Hana? Please have Captain Amari come in.”  

 

Hana is caught off guard. She looks from the doctor, now vaguely flipping through some papers on her desk within the room, to Fareeha, leaning casually, arms crossed under her chest, against the wall just to the right of the med bay entrance. Fareeha raises a brow in confusion and Hana shrugs back at her, mouthing ‘I don’t know’. Fareeha pushes off the wall and glances into the room before looking back at Hana. Lightly, she pats the gamer on the bicep.

 

“I’m glad you are okay,” Fareeha tells her, and: “I will see you later.” And then she glides past Hana into the room. Hana watches her until the glass door slides shut behind the Egyptian woman. When it is closed, she wanders off.

 

* * *

 

This is Fareeha’s first time in the Overwatch med bay. She is scheduled for an entrance physical in a couple of weeks – Dr. Ziegler has slowly been making her way through the recruits – but without the binding element of mandatory examinations, Fareeha makes it a general practice to avoid medical facilities when possible.

 

It is the smell, she has decided: the smell of bleach, stale air and stagnation. Like purgatory. Fareeha has spent enough time in her life waiting.

 

The automatic glass door hisses shut behind her, and Fareeha looks for a moment around the room. She takes in the white walls, the cleanliness of the examination bed and the stand beside it. The area where Angela sees patience is remarkably bleak - professional, efficient - an incredible contrast to the desk in the corner, three computer monitors mounted to the wall and small mountains of paper on and surrounding the space. Fareeha cannot begin to imagine what they are all for, and is not sure she would understand even if she asked. There’s a photo there, too, among the papers, of the younger Overwatch members, right before the fall – Jesse and Angela, Genji, Winston and Lena. Fareeha had wanted to be a part of that, but having been barred by Ana, had opted for the Egyptian armed forces instead. She doesn’t regret it, not at all, but if there is lingering bitterness she cannot shake, well, so be it.

 

“Captain Amari,” Dr. Ziegler says, looking up from her papers. It’s been ten years since she’s seen Angela Ziegler, and it is still almost as though nothing has changed.

 

“You fractured her shoulder.”

 

“It was an accident,” Fareeha responds lightly, roaming the room, reading the info-posters hung sporadically about the walls as a buffer.

 

“So I’ve been told.” Angela’s tone is unmistakably unimpressed.

 

“We were sparring and she hit the mat wrong.” Here Fareeha turns and catches the doctor’s eyes; they are blue. Fareeha does not recall them having been quite so blue. Or so capable of contending in a battle of wills.

 

“She is a child,” Angela says, annoyed, “perhaps you should not go so hard on her.”

 

“She is a _soldier_ ; it would be an insult to her training to not equip her with techniques for all sorts of scenarios, even at the risk of injury...” Fareeha isn’t particularly upset with the doctor, neither of them are instigators of conflict as far as she has been able to tell; but she is perplexed. Are they not on the brink of another great war?

 

Angela sighs and flops into her computer chair.

 

“You are right,” she concedes, running a hand through her blonde hair, and sounding tired. “I would still appreciate a greater awareness of your actions during training, however. Especially with Hana.”

 

“Because she is 19?” Fareeha clarifies.

 

“Because you have a responsibility for the well being of your team,” Angela tells her. Fareeha feels as though she has been slapped across the face. She tenses and stares at the doctor – some unsaid acknowledgement passes between them: Angela has clearly done some research on Fareeha’s career – and nods curtly.

 

“Noted,” Fareeha responds. A moment doesn't pass before she has left the med bay.

 

* * *

 

 

Angela watches Fareeha leave, when the doors hiss shut behind her she looks back at the files on her desk; one of them has “Amari” written in official red. Within it, the details of Fareeha Amari’s most recent (and last) Helix mission at the temple of Anubis, the particulars of her captain’s death, and her personal struggle of what had mattered more that night: the men or the mission.

 

To say that Angela thinks poorly of Fareeha Amari is not quite right; but she is maintaining a certain skepticism.

 

For Angela, the choice is always clear: saving lives _is_ the mission. If Hana Song is going to train with the younger Amari, perhaps she is at risk of more than just a few dislocated joints when the battles are real and the objectives elsewhere.

 

Still, Angela feels a bit bad. What she had said … that had been a low blow.

 

Angela turns off her computers, packs up her paperwork, and heads for her dorm. 

**Author's Note:**

> The original intention of this was to have it ending with Fareeha showing Angela a bruise Hana left by kicking her in the stomach and Angela blushing, if you can believe it...
> 
> I don't know if I'll do anything more with this, but I did enjoy writing it so who knows.
> 
> ALSO: for the love of all that is holy do not roll your dislocated shoulders back into place???? I have 0 medical experience and my one google search is not a good source of any realistic advice. I have no idea what I'm talking about in this fic. None at all.


End file.
